Hannibal: Enemy of Rome

‘Peace,’ said Malchus after a moment. ‘As usual, both your opinions have some merit. If we had the time, I would perhaps advise waylaying one of their hunting parties. A few hostages would make a powerful bargaining tool before we made an entry. That might take days, however, and we must act now.’ He glanced at Sapho. ‘Not in quite the way you advised. We will take a more peaceable approach. Remember, the stroked cat is less likely to scratch or bite. Yet we must be confident or, like a cat, they will turn on us anyway.’

Turning to their escorts, Malchus laid out the situation in Carthaginian and basic Iberian. There was little reaction. The Libyans and scutarii had been chosen for their loyalty and bravery. They would fight and, if necessary, die, for Hannibal. Wherever, and whenever, they were ordered to.

‘Which of you two speaks the best Iberian?’ Malchus asked his sons. While rusty, his command of the language sufficed most of the time. In a dangerous situation, however, it was best to minimise the chance of miscommunication.

‘I do,’ replied Bostar at once. Although he and Sapho had spent roughly the same amount of time in Iberia, it was he who had shown more aptitude for the rapid-fire, musical tribal tongues.

Sapho concurred with a reluctant nod.

‘You act as interpreter, then,’ Malchus directed.

Bostar didn’t try to hide his smirk.

Without further ado, they set off. Malchus took the lead, with Bostar and a glowering Sapho following. Their escorts marched to their rear, first the spearmen, and last the scutarii. The party had not gone far when a horn blared out from the nearest hillside. It was quickly echoed by another nearer the village. Shouts rang out on the ramparts. When they were about four hundred paces from the settlement, the front gates creaked open, and a tide of warriors poured out. Forming up in an unruly mass that blocked the entrance, they waited for the Carthaginians to approach.

Bostar felt his stomach clench. He glanced sidelong at Sapho, who was half pulling his sword from its sheath before slamming it home again. He’s worried too, thought Bostar. In front, the only sign of tension in their father was his rigid back. Bostar took heart from Malchus’ self-assurance. Show no fear, he told himself. They will smell it the way a wolf scents its prey. Taking a deep breath, he fixed his features into a stony expression. Coming to the same realisation, Sapho let go of his sword hilt. Their escorts marched solidly behind them, reassurance that if there was trouble, plenty of men would die before they did.

Malchus rode his horse straight up to the mob of Ausetani. Taken aback by his confidence and the size of his mount, some of the warriors retreated a little. The advantage did not last long. Prompted by their companions’ angry mutters, the men stepped forward once more, raising their weapons threateningly. Shouted challenges rang out, but Malchus did not move a muscle.

Like most Iberian tribesmen, few of the Ausetani were dressed identically. Most were bareheaded. Those who wore headgear sported sinew, bronze bowl or triple-crested helmets. The majority carried a shield, although these also varied in size and shape: tall and straight-sided with rounded ends, oval, or round with a conical iron boss. All were brightly painted with swirling serpents, diamonds, or alternating thick bands of colour. The Ausetani were also heavily armed. Every man carried at least one saunion, but many had two. In addition, each warrior had a dagger and either a kopis or a typical Celtiberian straight-edged sword.

Malchus turned his head. ‘Tell them who we are, and why we’re here.’

‘We are Carthaginians,’ said Bostar loudly. ‘We come in peace.’ He ignored the sniggers that met this remark. ‘With a message for your chieftain, from our leader, Hannibal Barca.’

‘Never heard of the prick,’ bellowed a hulking figure with a black beard. Hoots of amusement from his comrades followed. Encouraged by this, the warrior shoved his way out of the throng. Long raven tresses spilled out from under his bronze helmet. His black quilted linen tunic could not conceal the massive muscles of his chest and upper arms, and his sinew greaves barely fitted around his trunk-like calves. He was so big that the shield and saunion clutched in his ham fists looked like child’s toys. The warrior gave the Libyans and scutarii a contemptuous glance, before returning his cold gaze to Bostar. ‘Give me one good reason why we shouldn’t just kill you all,’ he snarled.

Snarls of agreement followed his challenge, and the Ausetani moved forward a step.

Bostar tensed, but managed to keep his hands in his lap, on his reins. He watched Sapho sidelong and was relieved when his brother didn’t reach for his sword either.

‘The guide was telling the truth,’ Malchus remarked dryly under his breath. He raised his voice. ‘Tell him that we bring a message, and gifts, for his leader from our general. His chieftain will not be pleased if he does not hear these words for himself.’